Of Unfortunate Circumstances
by JayElectric
Summary: Q messes up and Silva has methods of torture that weren't very prominent in the Academy.


**Pairing:** Silva/Q and Bond/Q, set during Skyfall  
**Summary:** Q messes up and Silva has methods of torture that weren't very prominent in the Academy.  
**Rating:** R  
**Warning: **Dub-con, intended non-con, uncomfortable situations, unfinished sentences, gag-use, canon anti-climactic character death, and everyone is a little gay and nothing hurts.

* * *

The mission was supposed to be simple. Get in. Extract the device Q planted. And find out how in the blazes Silva is hacking into one of the most secure databases in Britain.

But of course, everything does not go according to plan. Not only is the mission now: extract the Quartermaster who shouldn't have been on field duty in the first place, but M is also dealing with Bond, who isn't responding or activating his tracker. Even the newest recruits were better at avoiding capture than Q, but Bond, what was his distraction?

* * *

Q's hands are losing circulation and he's horrified at the thought of losing any fingers in the likely barbaric torture that he faces. He needs those fingers to make the finest weapons, to feel satisfaction when they save Bond's arse during a nasty situation. It's a personal zen of his.

Bond warned him about Silva. Told him how he was tied to a chair and apparently not tortured, but encouraged to divulge information. There was a strange glint in his eye when he spoke and Q had no clue what to make of it.

"So, Mr. Q. James calls you that, no?" Silva rounds about the chair and tilts Q's hanging chin forward so they make eye-contact.

He can't answer, Silva felt compelled to shove a rag between his teeth and is by-no-doubt mocking him for the incomprehensible words and sounds he's producing. He's obviously cursing his tits off, and Silva laughs upon realization.

It might be the adrenaline, Q normally maintains composure, but it might be a moment of weakness. No. It must be the adrenaline.

"There's no need for that sort of language, Q. Hm, Q, what does that stand for? Quaint, queen, queer?"

Q raises an eyebrow. A very low blow for someone who prides himself in quality presentation.

"No? Quizzical perhaps? I like that. Mr. Quizzical doesn't know what the crazy man is going on about." Q would deny that Silva has an uncanny sinister smile, but then he'd be lying.

Silva makes a motion to the door and his guards suddenly clear out. Somehow, Q feels even more unsafe alone in a room with this lunatic. Bring those bodyguards back please.

It's dark and dank in the room, but there's one window that shines light on them. Q is sweating right through his shirt, cardigan and coat and his glasses have slid down the bridge of his nose and he desperately wants to tilt his head back so he can keep an eye on Silva. But he feels too frightened to move, to breath.

"I've put James in that same chair once, you know?" Silva looms behind him, hands on Q's shoulders in an almost possessive way.

Q feels warmth on the top of his head and realizes that Silva is _smelling _him. Inhaling his scent like a tiger would drink in the scent of its prey. _What the fuck?_

"Did he tell you?"

Q nods slowly and Silva wraps his hand around his neck, fingers grazing his Adam's apple. He almost laughs at the tickle, _almost_. Warm breath against his ear. "I'm sure he said nothing about what _actually _happened."

Silva's hands snake down his chest and pull at the lapels of his dusty jacket until it's not secure over his shoulders anymore. There must be a chill in the room, no other explanation for the shiver down Q's back. The hands massage at his shoulders and are repeating the motion from before, only now, Q can really feel the warmth and weight of those hands, now on his navel.

He squirms in this seat, protests coming in garbled sounds. He wants to ask if this is what Silva did to Bond, but he doesn't have to, he _knows_.

"If you want to know. Yes. I toyed with James a little." Q disagrees, thinks that qualifies as assault."He was more cocky and compliant than you."

That's Bond. Drifting along all ends of the spectrum. _Women. Men. Madmen. _

"No. No, if you're worried, no clothing was shed."

_Why would I be worried? _Q wants to say. He's willing himself not to become hysterical, so he chooses to pretend that this doesn't faze him, but he's never been touched before, especially not in this invasive fashion.

Silva is tracing a finger up his wrist, easing his cardigan sleeve upwards, leaving him a shivering, shuddering mess.

"You like that?"

Q doesn't want to grace him with another inaudible answer, but he can't help but whimper when he feels lips, teeth, sink into his neck. He starts rocking violently, fruitlessly trying to escape and almost falling with the chair if Silva hadn't caught him firmly to move in front of him again.

Silva collects Q's knees and slides them apart with more strength than Q can manage to keep them together. A knee nudges between his thighs and presses steadily, pulling a dry sob from Q's throat.

He hears his broken comm on the floor make a sudden staticy noise, but Silva doesn't seem to notice, only presses his leg harder. Q feels arousal come over him in waves and he's embarrassed to admit it, even to himself.

"Ah. You do like _that_." Q glares at him through his blurry vision, now topped off with tears.

"Did James ever tell you how pretty you cry?" Silva, with unnerving sentimentality, catches the tear with the pad of his thumb before it reaches Q's lip. He keeps his finger there and all Q can think is how much his jaw aches and how rough in texture the finger is, stroking his lip.

Silva's face is uncomfortably close and his lips are now beyond boundaries. He kisses in a very chaste manner, humming against Q's lips and taking advantage of the rag and the fact that Q can't bite by licking at the roof of his mouth.

Not that Q is able to stop himself from gagging in disgust, he simply doesn't want Silva to think he's not enjoying this. It's twisted. It's logical, but illogical. He can feel it in the pit of his stomach. If he keeps rejecting Silva, he's certain that the man will snap like a rubber-band.

If his imagination wasn't so outlandish, he'd headbutt Silva, pull the rope apart with suppressed, unrealistic strength, find Bond, and drag them the hell out of here.

In actuality, he makes breathy noises and Silva seems to like that, grabbing his neck firmly and pulling at his bottom lip.

He wants to think that Bond will come crashing through the roof, but the likeliness of that are becoming slimmer by the second. Anything is more likely than Q getting out his own mess.

* * *

Bond is firm in his command. "He's dangerous, don't even think about making contact with him."

They're in one of Bond's beloved astronomically priced cars that he'll destroy by no doubt and he's is driving with his arms tense and uncomfortably outstretched as if he wants to rip the wheel off.

"I won't. I'll extract the sonar device and bring it straight back to you and we'll take it to HQ."

Q doesn't like to be spoken to like a child and Bond doesn't like speaking to him that way.

"I'm only doing this because you were stupid enough to use your thumbprint to control it. We need to know how he's getting all this information, we don't need another agent down."

"Stop patronizing me, 007. And don't call me stupid. These are necessary precautions."

The island of Silva's is huge and dirt clouds around the car as they approach the proper location. Only, it can't be the right location because the device is no longer buried there.

Bond tells him to stay in the car when he searches for it under the sand.

He speaks into his earpiece and he can't seem to turn his head to look Q in the eye. "He's found it. We're thoroughly fucked."

"Is it a trap?" Q asks, his voice suddenly unsteady. The question sounds stupid in his ears, but it doesn't matter.

Something whizzes by so fast that Q almost doesn't spot it, until it hits Bond in the neck. He squeaks and scrambles for the door, unlocking it and sprinting towards Bond, who's a heap on the ground.

He collapses to his knees and cradles Bond's head gingerly. "Oh, God, not again, please-"

His fingers meet a feathery end and he's relieved to be pulling a tranquilizer dart out of Bond's neck rather than a bullet.

Yet Q barely registers the crunch behind him until there's a gun pressed against the back of head.

"Hello, Mr. Q."

_Well, fuck._

* * *

"Bring Bond in!" Silva suddenly shouts and Q's skin is left buzzing from where he was touched. Two bodyguards come in, dragging an unconscious Bond and dropping him carelessly on the ground. Silva doesn't like that.

"Carefully, you hounds! Don't want him waking up with brain-damage." Silva smirks at the thought and Q feels sick. He's unsure if M will track Bond's device, if it was even activated, if they'll make it out of here _alive._

"I bet you're wondering why I brought James to our company." He doesn't wait for Q to even acknowledge the question. "He should be waking up in about half an hour, that's enough time for a little more play. I enjoy my play as much as my work, Q."

"You've been a very bad boy. You planted a device on my island so you can monitor my movements. Naughty, naughty." Silva wags a finger and slaps Q lightly on the cheeks in that playful manner.

"You want to know how I hacked into your Majesty's MI6 system?"

Q shakes his head, and as he had hoped, Silva frowns and stops, disappointed.

"No? Really? I was hoping you'd be more curious."

He reaches over and pulls the rag out of Q's mouth where it simply hangs on his neck. Q spits at the ground, the taste of bile burning his throat.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Me? I'm a justice of the peace, sent by the finest of organizations to-"

Q interrupts him, scoffs when he fakes offense, "your form of justice is vicious, sadistic and gets innocent people killed."

Silva cracks his jaw and advances. He places both hands on Q's thighs and gives them a firm squeeze. Q tries not to gasp. It doesn't hurt, and maybe that's what's making his stomach churn.

Q almost forgets that the guards are still there until Silva motions for them.

"Turn him around, but keep him in the chair."

He hears cartoonish stomping and his glasses reach their tipping point and fall off when he's lifted by his armpits and dropped back on the chair like a rag-doll. He shifts uncomfortably with his head hanging off the back of the chair and his legs asleep beneath him, scrambling for purchase without the use of his arms.

He doesn't like the prospect of losing eye-contact with his captor.

There's a hand on the back of his neck and it pushes him down, immobilizes him for the moment. "Let's play."

Silva glides a hand down his spine and over his bound hands. He stops at his arse and squeezes it. Q is glad that Silva can't see his face because his cheeks are an embarrassing shade of red.

"I have a brilliant idea."

Bond stirs and Q hears him groan in pain. "Wh-whuh?"

"Ah, yes, you're awake! Much earlier than expected, but I suppose you can hold your tranq as well as you can hold your whiskey."

Q wants to laugh.

Bond tries to move, but he finds his limbs can barely budge.

"My proposition, James, is that you-" Silva points to Bond, "fuck him" points to Q, "I let you both go. Easy? Yes? And nobody has to get their brains blown out."

Q curses under his breath and Bond's eyes widen when he takes in the situation. It's not a very good one.

"You're sick." Bond spits. Silva kneels by him and smiles. "Name calling isn't necessary."

"It's simple. Neither of you can get out until you take all the sexual energy of yours and put it to good use. Make the pretty boy cry. I see how you look at each other, just waiting. Waiting for what? Just fuck already."

"Fuck you."

Silva burst out laughing. "I know you're eager, James, but not today. Today, you have a boy who needs your love."

The two guards lift Bond up on his toes. He's given an injection and growls when his head bobs.

"You'll get back all the necessary sensations in no time."

Q is lifted off the chair and plopped down next to him.

"Once you can get it up, I want to you see you play."

* * *

Q blinks. Bond is cradling his head. "Q? Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" he whispers.

"Emotionally more than physically." It's almost a joke, but Bond knows there's veracity in it.

"I can't say that's good to hear" and Q used to wonder how those callused hands of his would feel, now it's happening and Q's muscles unwind like twine.

"I feel oddly reassured, Bond. You'll get us out of here. Right?"

"You bet your scrawny arse I will."

Another voice makes itself known, "ooh, how sweet, my heart is tender with affection. James?"

A safety is released and Q looks up to be greeted by a 9mm.

"Now do exactly as I say and I won't be forced to kill your pretty boyfriend."

Bond glares, puts his hands up.

"Good, good. Now I want you to remove his clothing."

Bond hesitates. Q blinks up at him, trying to focus with his horrid vision, and nods with reassurance. "I'm sorry, Q." And frees him of his bonds quicker than the guards can react. For a moment, Q's heart skipped a beat where he actually thought Bond would comply with Silva's demands. An audacious maybe even flippant part of his mind actually hoped that he would.

* * *

Q folds himself into a fetal position, gripping his shoulder and trying to stop the blood flow desperately with his hand.

"Fuck, Bond!" he has a glaze over his eyes from the tears, the pain is excruciating and he feels silly for not tolerating the pain as much as Bond would. Then again, it's not as if he's been shot hundreds of times and killed maybe a handful.

He can only go by sound and blurry figures as Bond knocks the gun pointed at him out of the guard's hands. It goes off, obviously leading to this messy predicament, but on the bright side, his head is still in one piece and by the sound of Bond's heavy breathing, he's still in one piece too.

There's a guard draped over Q's shoulder and he doesn't have enough strength, stamina or mere body-weight to get him off.

"A little help." He manages, but not loud enough. "Bond!"

"Sorry" he hears Bond say and the body is either kicked or pushed off of him, but he doesn't care.

"It's a shame, really-" Silva says suddenly, Q hears the sound of his pained groan when Bond undoubtedly punches him.

Silva laughs, his gums bleeding and the brace supporting his cheekbones and jaw hanging slightly out. It's a ghastly sight but Bond holds the gun firmly, doesn't waver from his objective.

"I was hoping to have a little more fun. It's tiring to kill off brutes like yourself-" he's hit in the face again, the support flies out and his nose begins to bleed profusely. Bond grips him by the shirt, gun pointed at his heart.

"Can't a man play a little before he goes to work?"

Bond finally speaks. "You don't fuck with my agents, Silva. There's a place in hell I reserved for you. You can play to your heart's content."

"I was wrong about you James. You're-" the gunshot echoes in the empty room, leaving residual ringing in Q's ears.

* * *

They're in a helicopter and M is raving mad on the other line. "Should've called for backup- insolent- irresponsible- how could this bloody happen- why was Q on the field-" the line goes silent for a while. Bond and Q make eye contact, they're sitting across from each other as if not daring to be in close proximity.

"Good job, Bond. You too, Q." She has a relatively fast recovery period.

They smile in unison.

Q takes this moment to speak. "Pardon my saying, but I would've been enlightened by the Madman's thought- finished, preferably. He was a wretched man, yes, and assaulted me in practically the same manner that he assaulted you in- which you failed to disclose to me."

He kept a relatively straight face but his body language- hunched forward, arms wrapped around himself protectively- says otherwise.

It takes Bond by surprise and he stares at Q with his mouth half open and his eyes comically wide for a few seconds. His eyes downcast in possible shame. "I would have shot his hands off if you told me earlier."

"That would've been unnecessary and you would've been verifying Silva's 'brute' adjective. The man has been tortured enough."

Bond presses. "I would've never let him lay his hands on you."

"And I would've never let you keep lying to me about what happened," Q remarks, effectively silencing Bond. He's honored by Bond's protective nature, but he's miserable at the thought of how easily lying comes to him. How quickly the bodies stack up.

Q hears Bond's breathing, even over the loud helicopter, and he closes his eyes. There's a warm hand cupping his cheek and he realizes that glasses are being place in front of his eyes and he can see Bond looking at him with rather intense concentration and the hand still on his cheek moves to his neck. "I'll make it up to you."

Bond's lips are pleasant, slightly chapped, Q wishes he would take care of them more, but he loses the thought- there's an arm around his waist and a tongue poking between his lips and he tries to block Silva out of his psyche, successfully when Bond starts kissing any residual tension away, persistently in fact.

"Uh, Agents?"

They break apart like two teenagers caught in the act and are reminded that there's another Agent sitting with them in the back.

He's blushing furiously and trying not to look their way. Bond smirks when he sees him cross his legs.

"Might be better if you continued this in a bed" he mumbles, and at the mere thought, wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his arm.

Bond laughs, "chin up, Roy, you'll find a lucky lass- or bloke, someday."

Roy's face turns a violent red and Q slaps Bond lightly on the knee. "Don't tease the recruits, 007. It's not very nice."

"You'd detest me if I wasn't naughty." Bond squeezes Q's thigh, receiving a well-deserved sound somewhere between a gasp and whimper. Q grabs Bond's wrist, nails digging in slightly.

"Can't you last another half hour until we're in my flat?"

Bond purses his lips, but smiles nonetheless.


End file.
